Bloody Sunday
by Skimmers Conlon O'Leary Meyers
Summary: He fought valiantly, but in the end he gave in to himself. Sometimes, if there is no escape, you have to make your own. He had no control over the physical agony; but he could end it on his own terms; then on that Bloody Sunday.


**Hey hey ladies! what's shakin?! lolz. its us heah--we got this idea, actually Glimmer did, when we were shoutin out to the NJL--it was fun stuff--so here's some kinda short, kinda not, hell who knows--it could become a novel---kidding...But whatever it is, it's Spot angst--the kind we awl love---*sigh* We luffle Spot--ya know, of all the characters, nobody can dislike Spot Conlon, am I right? Of course I am**

**Guess what?! Skittles and Glimmer just totally tawked the whole movie on tape--songs and all, accents and awl--we were both like ten thousand ppl---we rocked the house on KONY and Once and For All, amd of course Santa Fe b/c Glimmer sang the crap out of it--ended it, then remembered that there WAS more! LOLZ....But we sucked arse on The World Will Know, because Skittles didn't remember the lyrics, and Glimmer didnt remember the melody...it was terrible...*laughs* But anyway, we're gonna shut the feck up and get to writing this li'l baby....**

**Skimmers Conlon O'Leary Meyers**

**SCO'LM**

**.**

**disclaimer****. we don't own spot.  we don't own bunkhouses or newsies or pistols. we own bourbon and the kid who attacks spot. and glimmer has sole rights to top. now go read before we soak ya.**

**.**

Twelve year-old Spot Conlon scurried through the streets of Brooklyn. In an all-too-quick flurry of hands, he was caught and yanked violently into an alley; where a gruff voice told him to keep still, shut up; and empty his pockets.

Refusing, as he had just sold his papes, and in his pockets held a dollar in pennies, Spot felt himself shoved into a brick wall as he looked into grey eyes that held not even a glimmer of warmth. 

Upon seeing the boy reach into his vest and draw out a gleaming, silvery pistol, Spot's eyes widened and a fear like no other trembled through his body. This young man was no newsy. Before he could be so much as threatened with the gun in his face, Spot saw another boy crash into the alley; whirling the other around.

In the blurry of fists that flew from his rescuer, the pistol was dropped, clattering to the cobblestone. His savior fought the other boy to near unconsciousness, and as his attacker stumbled out of the alley, half running, half being pushed; Spot looked into the face of the remaining boy.

It was Top; the leader of the Brooklyn newsies, his leader. A feeling of thanks, of intense gratitude, flowed through his whole body. He murmured his thanks, trying not to fling himself upon Top. 

Top smiled, and, mussing the younger boy's hair, told him to come on back to the docks. 

As he exited the alley, the afternoon sun caught a reflection; and something silver sparkled. The pistol, now lying harmlessly on the ground, just sat there.

Spot hesitated, and though something told him to leave it, a bigger, louder, stronger part of his mind told him to take it.

So he did.

He awoke that night three years later, as he had done many times in these past few weeks, coughing and wheezing.

No one noticed; or if they did they didn't say a word. No one wanted to accuse Spot Conlon of being anything less than perfect. They valued their lives and limbs too much to make such observations.

The pain in his chest, in his lungs, was tremendous, and caused him to bend in an attempt to somehow quell the agony that seemed to overtake his whole being.

The fit ceased slowly, and seemed to drag the life out of him as it went. He fell back onto bed, exhausted. His whole body seemed to ache as he tried to go back to sleep, failing miserably.

Miserable was a vast understatement; as he coughed and shook into the night. As a general rule, there was no morning edition on Sundays, as those with money to buy papes were at church, and the others working. So as his boys slept on, Spot continued to cough.

Toppling backwards onto his bed, the last tiny bit of hold he had left escaping, Spot began to tremble. His whole body hurt, burned. His head throbbed with an intensity he had never known, and his throat was raw. 

Now, feeling sick and tired and small, the tiniest whimper quaked through his lips. 

And he was scared. Scared because he knew that this day would come; and he knew what was happening to him. Knowing his fate only made him even more terrified.

And as the sun rose majestically on the City below the window, lighting everything in yellows and pinks, rebounding off the leaves on the few trees there were, he still lay awake. The leaves had just begun to turn their brilliant shades of reds and oranges; yellows and browns, turning the world into a blazing inferno of color. 

Spot felt like an inferno himself. Sweat drenched his body, and his hair, shaggy and in need of a trim, fell in sweat-coated locks onto his hot forehead.

After what seemed like days of lying there, trying desperately not to cough; the door creaked open.

As Spot looked up, a tired, glazed over look in his blue-green eyes that held none of their usual sparkle; Bourbon stepped into the room.

"I hoid ya coughin'."

"Oh ya did, didja?" Trying to sound tough, demeaning, all was lost as he sat up and winced as a sharp pain coursed through his chest.

"Yeah. Nobody else is awake tho', don' worry 'bout it Conlon."

Bourbon studied his leader, taking in the fact that his usually tanned face was pale with illness, and the obvious fact that his body trembled despite how hard he fought to keep himself steady.

"You--You okay?" Bourbon asked hesitantly, shaking his dark hair out of his equally charcoal eyes. As the coldness of the room hit him full-force, he noticed that the window was open, and the chilled September wind was whistling through it. Rubbing his toned arms, his abdominal muscles shivered with cold.

"It's freezin' in heah Conlon, what the hell." 

"Yeah well I got hot, so I opened it, got a pro'lem? This ain' yoah room is it?"

"No." Bourbon answered his leader's angry inquiry in a monotone, dragging out the 'o' in a slight question.

"Then get the hell out!" His raise of voice brought Spot back down when it resulted in hacking coughs that wracked his whole body.

Bourbon did no such thing. He stood there, frozen in fear. Seeing Spot Conlon like that, so blatantly sick, did something to him. Spot Conlon was no longer a leader not to be tampered with, he was a fellow human being who needed help.

"Spot--"

"Jus' go! Get the hell out Bourbon! An' don' you tell nobody 'bout dis!"  He forced down his coughing long enough to choke out a passionate dismissal.

"Spot, you need help!"

"I don't need nobody, now get!"

And so Bourbon left.  And he went as fast as he could run to a tenement building on 21st and 37th street. He jerked open the wooden door and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, three if he felt the need.

He knocked on a door, number C301, and it was pulled open after a slight hesitation. A young man, barely twenty-one, peered out warily. 

"B, what the hell you doin' heah? It's seven AM."

"Sorry T. Can I come in?"

Bourbon entered his brother's apartment, if you could call it that, it was so small and cramped. 

"Tyler, Spot's sick. I mean really sick. 'E needs 'elp an' I don't know that the hell ta do!"

"Aiight Benny--"

"Ben, or else I cawl you Lerrie,"

"Yeah yeah whatevah."

"Listen Top, he needs help. 'E was up awl night, coughin' and that, and den when I went in theah, 'e was awl--" Making a face and gestures in the air, Bourbon paused. "He was sweatin' like it was da middle a July, and 'is window was open. I don' know if you been outside this mornin', but it's damn cold."

"Okay, so he's sick. He'll get bettah." Top shrugged and turned around to sit down in the only chair he had, a wooden rocker. 

"Not this time, Tyler. Come on, you didn't see it...I mean, we've awl been sick before, it happens. But I've nevah seen someone so sick, so," he paused, "broken."

Top stared long and hard at his brother, taking what he had said into perspective.

"An', an' I dunno if he knew dis, but deah was blood on the cornah of 'is mouth, and there was more after he got into a fit while I was in theah."

"Whoa whoa wait. He's coughin' up blood?" Bourbon nodded. "Damn." Studying to be a doctor was a longer and harder journey than he had anticipated, but he knew some things. "Sounds ta me like Tuberculosis."

"Yeah? How d'you know?" Bourbon asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Well I know some stuff,"

"Well how d'ya fix it?!" 

There was a pause; Bourbon tense and Top seeming to be contemplating.

"You don't." His voice was flat, his eyes downcast as he avoided looking his little brother in the eyes, his brother who had become as close to intimidating as it was possible to be without leading Brooklyn.

As the full realization hit him like a shooter from an angry slingshot, Bourbon reeled back. 

"You don' fix it? Then--" Bourbon cut himself off, and stared off into space. He was the closest thing to a best friend as Spot had; though Spot Conlon would never admit to having a best friend if his life depended on it.

"He'll get worse. Till he--" Top stopped and looked at his brother, his eyes telling Bourbon all he needed to know.

A few days later, still in a deep state of utter and complete shock, Bourbon sat on his bunk. Sighing, he pulled a bottle from under his bed. Bourbon. The one thing in existence that could calm him, soothe him.

So now that there was no way to help him, Bourbon had to stand back and watch his leader and almost best friend die a slow and painful death.

He drank the Bourbon halfway down before the rest of the boys entered, and he shoved it under the bed, knowing that if anyone knew of his stash, it would be gone before the sun came up.

In the next few weeks, Spot's condition neither improved nor worsened. Bourbon still heard him up at night, coughing like there was no tomorrow, which for him, there soon would not be. No one else knew, this Bourbon was sure of. As the hacking coughs came, muffled, from their leader's room, the other boys slept on, exhausted from the day that lay behind them.

One sunny morning in early October, the boys lined up for their papes, shivering subtly in the nippy air. 

As he sold, Bourbon watched Spot, who seemed to be selling poorly that morning. His voice was raspy, and if he raised it any higher than a low mumble, he dissolved into coughs. If he had been younger, it would have worked like a charm, but, since he wasn't Les Jacobs, the ol' cough cough routine was all washed up. 

A younger newsy sat near Spot late that afternoon as the boys lounged on the docks before dinner.

The small boy toted a glass of water, drinking from it. As he sat down, a bit sloshed out of the too full glass and splattered onto Spot's pants. Already feeling terrible, the wetness was the last straw.

Leaping to his feet, ignoring the pang it sent through his body, Spot whirled to face the small boy, who cowered in fear.

As he opened his mouth to yell, his face flushed in rage, Spot felt a wave of fatigue sweep over his body and mind. He instantly felt nauseated, dizzy, disoriented.

And as the world went dark, he heard the yells of his boys surround him, before all was silent.

Spot awoke in his bed, his head pounding, scorching. A searing pain ran through his chest as he drew in a shaky breath. 

The door swung open and Bourbon entered, a roll in his hand.

"I t'ought ya might want dis," he said softly, as if he were afraid of Spot.

"No." 

"Spot, ya haven't eaten in days!" Bourbon exclaimed shrilly, accusingly.

"Not hungry." And it was the truth. Lately, he hadn't felt a hunger pang or any other signs that he needed food. All he had felt was pain, throbbing agony.

Bourbon opened his mouth to speak, but Spot held up a quivering hand.

"I know you know what's wrong Bourbon," he began, and Bourbon's mouth dropped open, "And I know too. Me muddah died of it, so did me baby sistah. I thought I was outta da woods when nothin' happened, but--" 

"Tuberculosis." As he spoke the word, Bourbon's face contorted in a flinching grimace.

"Mmm," was all Spot replied.

"So what now?" Bourbon asked, licking his lips, playing with his fingers.

"Now we wait." And suddenly, there was a fear in Spot's face, a terror-filled expression playing in his eyes. And then, as soon as he knew Bourbon had seen it, he waved a hand. "Go. Get outta heah."

When Spot didn't get up the next day, or the next, or the day after that, the boys began to talk. It was bad enough seeing their leader fall to the ground in a crumpled heap right before their eyes, but now; now he lay in his bed, in his room, not moving.

And as his boys sold, Spot lay on his back, sometimes feeling so cold, with chill after chill running quick fingers down his spine, and sometimes finding himself kicking off his blankets in a panic, so hot and sweaty he felt as if he were suffocating.

And he knew, his hand pressed on his forehead, that he was burning up; his head pounded, making him feel as if he were going to throw up.

He did once, but he hadn't eaten in days, as Bourbon had so graciously pointed out. So all that came was a fluid that burned his throat until he felt like crying. But Spot Conlon never cried, not even when no one could see. 

He still had his pride; and that was the only thing he had; for he didn't have his strength, or anything else that he felt protected him from the elements of Brooklyn, of the world, of life.

Nothing could protect him now; not even God could save his life now.

But he did pray. He prayed for God to stop his suffering for once and for all; whether it meant killing him off or not.

He just wanted to die. Spot didn't care about staying alive anymore; he just wanted the pain to end. 

It was a never-ending cycle. The coughing gave him a throbbing headache; the night sweats made him nauseous; loss of appetite made him weak; the chills made him dizzy; the fever made him slightly delirious and have him terrible, horrifying dreams of madmen and fires and everything in between--he woke up yelling in fear, which made the whole blasted cycle begin again; back at square-one, and this time; with a vengeance.

One particular night, it was so bad that he thought it was the last night of his life.  He was usually decent during the relatively mild weather of the day, but each night he dreaded the onslaught of the cool breezes that wracked his sweat-soaked skin with shivers.  With the sun just dipping below the horizon, Spot felt alright for a time. He had the continuous, throbbing headache that he had come to know these past days and weeks, but he could see straight for the first time in what seemed like forever.

His window was cracked to allow the cool night air in, and he savored the refreshing breeze like an ice cold drink on a summer day.  It was then that he realized he was starting to sweat again.  He wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his shirt several times before he felt the sweat dripping down his back.  Before he would let the strange sensation make him shiver, he angrily yanked off his shirt.  He used a coarse blanket to towel himself dry in an irrational attempt to regain the feeling of normalcy.  He just wanted to be normal again.  Like everyone else. 

The rough blanket scratched his skin, and the pain was amplified by the salty sweat that soaked him, slickened him, and made him shiver.  The breeze from the window felt like shards of ice against his wet shoulders, and he viciously wrapped the blanket around himself in defense.  

He let himself fall back on the lumpy mattress in a reluctant surrender, and the quick movement made his stomach turn.  Gritting his teeth together, furious at himself for being so weak, he leapt to his feet, determined to get out of bed and be normal again, be powerful again, to have control.  

Almost the instant his feet hit the floor, Spot's young legs collapsed under him, and he fell to the floor.  Frustrated to find himself still conscious and realizing that he no longer had the strength even to stand, he pulled the blanket over his head to salvage what little dignity he had left.  

Bourbon, hearing the thump, threw open the door and practically fell into the room.  He stopped dead as he saw his leader lying in a heap on the floor.  "Conlon?" he asked tentatively.

"B.  Ge-- ge--  geddouddaeah...." It was nearly incomprehensible, but Bourbon heard it, and was sick of Spot pushing people away just when he needed them the most.  Ignoring the grumbles of his friend, he lifted the indisposed newsy back onto the bed, where he lay shuddering.

Bourbon knelt at the side of the bed as Spot's body convulsed in violent coughing.  With every bloody cough, his torso flew up from the bed, and crashed back down.  All Bourbon could think to do was to try to keep Spot from hurting himself as the wretchedness of his suffering continued.  To Bourbon's horror, Spot's body contorted itself for the next ten minutes, until Spot lay on the bed, asleep, breathing shallowly and painfully.  

The rickety breathing issuing from his friend's pale lips scared Bourbon like nothing in the world.  There was no rhythm, no order, and barely any life in it.  Bourbon sat at the foot of his bed, watching him for the rest of the night.

When Spot awoke in the morning, he was almost sorry. The thought of dying no longer frightened him, it gave him a wonderful, rushing sense of relief; a wave of release. 

_If only it could come sooner_, he thought with disdain. 

As he raised his head, ever so slightly, he realized that, as a Sunday once again, no boys would awake until the sun was square in the sky; and now, the sunrise rose bright pink, lighting the city below. 

And as he squinted further, his forehead erupting in fireworks of pain as he did; he noticed a form at the end of his bed. Scooting closer, Spot saw that it was Bourbon; kneeling what had to be uncomfortably on the wooded floor; his arms crossed on the bed, his head placed in it.

As Spot watched Bourbon sleep, he remembered the way Bourbon had tried to hold him down as he had been thrashing about during the night; how this boy; his friend; had tried to help him.

Suddenly realizing that he was having thoughts of kindness toward another, Spot rolled his eyes skyward and slid himself back onto the headboard; where his head connected sharply with the wood and he grimaced as an intense ache of pain coursed through his head.

_ God is toying with me_. The only straight-forward thought he had had in days. It was as if God were jerking him up on a tight string; up to Heaven where he would be able to live in ecstasy for all Eternity, with his family; only to be dropped back down to a hard, cold, coughing existence.

_Damn you, God. Damn you._

And with that final curse, Spot's mind flicked to the pistol he had under his mattress. Suddenly wondering whether or not it was loaded; as he had never been able to work up the nerve to check, for fear of what kind of sense of power might rush through him; Spot slowly lay on his stomach to reach it.

He pulled it out from under the mattress and stared at it. The cool metal felt good in his hands, and he pressed it briefly against his hot forehead.

Turning it upside-down, he flicked open the end. Three golden bullets fell into his clammy palm.

His heartbeat quickening, Spot looked around him. As he reloaded the gun, he held it up to his eyes, licking his lips; resolved to his final task.

Spot looked experimentally down the barrel of the gun, and ran his finger along the smooth trigger.  He inserted the barrel of the gun between his lips and closed his mouth around the cold, smooth, cylindrical surface of it.  His teeth scratched it and sent a ringing pain through his brain.  

Shutting his eyes tight, he moved his finger to the trigger.  Suddenly, he had a vision of Jack, holding little Les Jacobs on his shoulder as he announced they had won the strike.  He saw himself clap Racetrack on the back.  He saw himself laughing with his newsies before they were his, as they swam in the East River in the heat of the summer.  He felt the dancing heat of the fireplace on a Christmas morning the last time he, his mother, and his sister had celebrated it.  Right before she died.  Died, and left him and his sister to deal with the pain.  He remembered the grief of her death.  Spot opened one eye, and saw Bourbon, sleeping peacefully, if uncomfortably, at the foot of his bed.  

He pulled the gun from his mouth and wiped it on the pillow under his chest.  He glanced back at Bourbon, and remembered.

_Bourbon, Bourbon, Bourbon._   The only thing he would drink.  Bourbon had a stash of the alcoholic drink, Spot knew it.  He gave a weak cackle, weak enough to not waken Bourbon, but strong enough to trigger choppy, bloody, painful coughs.  

Wiping the blood and saliva off of his mouth with the back of his hand, Spot decided once and for all.  Gathering up all of the strength and resolve, he got to his feet, wavered once and then walked purposefully toward the door.  He opened it silently, but in the time that it had taken him to stop his inertia and open the door, his legs gave out.

He fell to his knees with a clatter.  He froze, sat silent as a few of his slumbering newsies grumbled and turned over in their sleep.  Once all was calm again, he crawled and snaked his way over to Bourbon's bunk.  Bourbon's bunk was, fortunately for Spot, only a few feet from the doorway, and when he reached it, he felt blindly through his dizzy haze until his hand found a smooth, cold bottle.

Fumbling to get the bourbon open, Spot leaned against the bunkroom wall.  He hungrily took a gulp of the burning liquid, and then as his vision cleared a bit, he looked around at the bunkroom.

He hadn't seen it in some time, but it looked like it always had.  He watched the sleeping boys with resentment, wishing that he could be normal again, wishing that everything was alright.

  
But it wasn't.  _Yer__ dyin, Conlon, Spot thought to himself as he raised the bourbon up to his lips and drained the bottle.   _

As his dizziness faded away, Spot stood up with the help of the alcohol and adrenaline flowing through his veins.  He knew what to do.  The bunkroom swam around him, but Spot felt liberated.  He didn't feel dizzy.  He didn't feel much of anything, actually. 

Spinning on his toes, Spot tried to regain his old saunter as he casually walked up to his bed.  He reached down and picked up the pistol.

It was so pretty, glinting in the early morning sun.   Spot admired it for a moment before he leaned against the wall, and looked, almost lazily, into the barrel of the gun.

"Bye Bourbon...," Spot held up the gun like a toast in the direction of Bourbon, and then in the direction of the bunkroom.  "Bye fellas."

Spot turned the gun towards his forehead, whispered, "On my way, Ma," and let his finger squeeze the trigger back.  He knew no more.

And, with the shot of the pistol going off like the end of the world all packed into one room; Bourbon and every solitary boy shook awake.

But only Bourbon was close enough to see his leader slide slowly to ground, crumpling into an impossible position; leaving a streak of red hot blood on the wall.

"NO!" Bourbon wailed, feeling his mind go hysterical. He rushed over to the body on the ground; for though he knew what had happened, and though he knew that Spot could not have possibly survived a shot such as that; he had to see.

As the other boys crowded the door, too scared to enter; gasping and hollering as they saw the sight before them, the pistol still clutched in Spot's cold dead fingers; Bourbon scrambled over.

The clean, round bullet had made a small hole over Spot's right eyebrow. As far as Bourbon knew, it had been a quick, through-and-through shot; fatal instantly.

Still, Bourbon pressed his fingers into Spot's neck. A haunting stillness met his fingertips; and Bourbon felt himself panic.

Suddenly, without being told, Bourbon knew that Brooklyn had a new leader. And his namesake, now only an empty bottle, lay on the hardwood floor, resting firmly in the gap between two floorboards. 

And all was silent. 

All was still.

All was over; and all was just beginning; then on that Bloody Sunday.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~


End file.
